During each of our first few dates, Amira tells me about a different ex. Even though she is only twenty-four, she has many of them, and according to her, they are all amazing and interesting people, and she is grateful to still have all of them in her life. Since I am almost thirty but have no relationship history of my own to share, I spend more time listening than talking, but I’m grateful for her lopsided attention. Conversations have always been a challenge for me. I can never figure out the right rhythm and I’m always off beat—interrupting at the wrong moment, letting the silence hang for far too long.
On our fourth date, we finally decide to venture out of Lincoln Park. At first, we plan to make the trek across town to Pilsen for tacos, but right as we are about to enter Belmont Station to catch the Red Line, Amira grabs my arm mid-stride and forces eye contact, startling me.
“Hey, what if we went to Devon instead? I’m really craving Indian food. It’s been so long since I’ve had it. Just one of those brown girl cravings, you know? I know you get it!”
I actually really want to go on the crosstown taco adventure we planned, but Amira seems so excited about her spontaneous suggestion that I stammer in agreement that I would love to get some Indian food nearby instead of going all the way to the other end of the city. Even though that is, in fact, exactly the sort of activity I would prefer.
“Hive mind!” she shouts, looking absolutely satisfied with herself. But when we get off the bus an hour later, the restaurant Amira leads me to is not one that I have ever liked. It is apparently her mother’s favorite though, so I go along and let her decide what to order—not that she asks me what I want to eat.
Twenty minutes later, we are sitting at a booth in the back of the restaurant. It is shadowy and secluded, far away from any windows and lit only by a sputtering overhead light that makes it hard to see anything clearly. My eyes hurt from trying to focus, and I end up closing them as Amira tells me how much I’m going to love the food.
By the time it finally arrives nearly half an hour later, my head is pounding. Amira starts telling me about her most recent ex, bragging about how she supported them through their top surgery as she carefully rips apart the garlic naan to dip into the bhuna gosht she’s ordered for us to share. I don’t like bhuna gosht, so instead of eating, I watch through slitted eyes as the mole on her left cheek moves around while she chews. It bobs up and down as she tells me how they weren’t romantically compatible, but they’re still best friends so it all worked out.
Ghee coats the thin shadow of coarse fuzz above her lips, making it glisten in the dim light, more coal than peach. My stomach growls as I wonder what it would feel like to wipe it off with a caress of my thumb. Amira stops rambling as she notices me staring, her lips curving into a gentle dagger of a smirk.
“I was supposed to go to the salon yesterday, but I was too lazy. My mom is totally gonna yell at me if she finds out I went on a date looking like this. But you seem like someone who doesn’t care about that sort of thing. Am I right?”
I blush and touch the jagged edges of my own cheeks, roughshod and worn from years of fruitless waxing and threading. I’ve given up recently, though I haven’t told my mother. There is something comfortable about accepting myself as a small, furry animal. In my online dating profiles, I’ve even posted a few selfies where my facial hair is clearly visible, sharing my imperfections. I think Amira likes this vulnerability. I hope my instincts aren’t wrong.
Amira is the first brown woman who has ever sustained a conversation with me long enough to make it to a first date, let alone four, so I decide not to tell her that I hate bhuna gosht. By the end of the meal, she is full enough to let out a loud burp of satisfaction, but she doesn’t seem to notice that I haven’t eaten anything. I tell myself it’s probably because she was very hungry and this was one of her favorite dishes.
I have never been good at parting words, but I want to try this time. Since our first date, I have followed Amira’s lead whenever it comes time to say goodbye. I still haven’t told her about my complete lack of experience, but I’m sure it must be obvious by now. We have only hugged once; we haven’t even come close to kissing. I immediately freeze up as soon as she casually leans in during a conversation, afraid to even breathe. To be honest, if anyone saw us together, they would probably think we were just friends. And yet, miraculously, Amira still wants to spend time with me. I wonder if she can sense that I am seeking comfort she cannot possibly give me, despite our mostly common backgrounds, if she can feel the frenetic anxiety that pulses underneath my skin for hours during each of our dates. For her, I can try to be brave.
I lean down to pluck the wilted dandelions growing in front of the metal bench next to the bus stop, where we are waiting for the 155. Mosquitoes latch onto my fingers, and my stomach rumbles from hunger as I slice a blade of grass with a nail and wrap it around the stems before shyly presenting them to her.
“Thanks for coming out with me again today. I think you’re really cool,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel.
My hands are cold, even in the July heat.
Amira takes the bouquet and tucks it into a slit on her jean jacket. “You know, I’ve been meaning to say something, but you’re kind of like a boy. It’s so interesting, the way your hair is so long, and your face is so feminine, but your smile—it’s something about your smile. And the way you move your hands. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Is . . . is that a good thing?”
She unsheathes her sharp little smile again. “It’s cute, I guess.”
And suddenly I’m smiling too. A strange, manic exhilaration sears through me like a firework, leaving me breathless, giddy, pressing my hands to my chest. So happy, though I don’t know why.
Amira’s bus approaches. I don’t know what else to say, so I lean in and try to wrap her in a hug. She stiffens underneath me, turning my efforts at intimacy into a pale imitation of an embrace. The headlights are too blinding to see her expression as she pulls away from me and quickly waves goodbye. And then she’s gone.
I lie wide awake until 1 a.m., wondering if the hug was too much too fast, when Amira sends me two texts:
—There’s a South Asian drag show fundraiser in Andersonville on Friday
—Wanna go?
I brush my teeth and wash my face before responding, thinking about what to say. Watery, reddish pink eyeballs stare back at me in the bathroom mirror from three hours of refreshing my phone in the dark. I land on:
— Yes!
It’s ninety-five degrees the next day but my air conditioner is broken, so I lie on my bed with my curtains drawn to shut out the sun, fanning myself with my journal as I melt into my memory foam mattress. I’ve never been to a drag show, let alone a South Asian one. I’ve never even thought of going to one; they’ve always seemed like loud celebrations of an identity I’m afraid to claim, and I have never considered fearlessness an option.
My queerness has always been tucked behind closed doors, private discoveries whispered in low tones to people I trust. Unruly desires growing wild inside a secret garden that I carefully prune before talking to my family so I can give off the appearance of a late bloomer. My mother would flood the dirt with her tears if she ever found out the truth.
Amira has often bragged about how immersed she is in the South Asian queer community in Chicago, so I am soon struck by the irrational fear that she will expect me to be familiar with the performers at the drag show. I look up the event page on Facebook and do some research on them. Jalebi Gayby has a day job as an assistant professor of art history. Rose of Sharabi works as a programmer during the day and performs on the weekends. Lady Kohinoor and Rose of Sharabi are longtime friends who got into drag at the same time, introduced to it by Lady K’s wife, who also performs as a drag king named Anita Man. All of them are Chicago natives who have reunited to perform at the fundraiser, which is apparently an annual event.
I can’t find any additional information on Anita Man beyond a grainy photo of an early performance, even though he is the one I am most interested in.
I find a video of Lady Kohinoor performing at a local club. She is more beautiful than I have ever been—more beautiful, I realize, than I ever want to be. Afterward, I keep searching YouTube for clips of Anita Man. I never find him, but I do find a compilation of other drag king transformations and performances. As I watch them, my heart shudders.
Amira has shown up late for every date, so on Friday, I text her in the morning, just to make sure she’s still coming and to confirm the time. By late afternoon, she still hasn’t even seen my message, and the cold drip of concern starts to seep into my excitement for the drag show.
I knock on my neighbor Layla’s door. Layla is the only person I know in this apartment building. We get along very well—I would even go as far as to call her my closest straight friend and most enthusiastic ally but despite being close in age, we’re so different that it’s unlikely we would have ever become friends had we not run into each other in the basement laundry room a few months ago and realized we lived on the same floor. Layla is bold, confident, and inquisitive, with a vibrant social circle of fellow finance professionals. The only things she knows about me and my life are the curated details I choose to share with her. Still, it’s nice to have a friend of convenience like her; it allows me to be a blank slate in ways I never could with people who know too much about me, about my weaknesses. Layla thinks I am more interesting than I actually am, especially as the only queer person she knows personally. Because we come from such different perspectives, sometimes I feel like she sees me as more of an interesting curiosity to examine than a real person. But that might just be my insecurities. I usually wrap myself in so many protective facades around everyone I interact with that I can’t imagine being fully transparent and vulnerable with anyone. Even so, Layla has never been anything but accepting and encouraging to me—after all, she is the one who convinced me to swipe right on Amira in the first place.
I show her the unread text. “Do you think she’s going to show up?”
Layla bends down and scoops up Coco, her ancient pug, who has squeezed himself between her legs to say hello with a guttural wheeze that echoes down the hallway. Layla shrugs and kisses his deeply wrinkled forehead.
“Forget about her. I’ll be your hot date if she doesn’t want to be.”
Layla and I take the forty-minute bus ride up to Andersonville. It’s a lesbian mecca, but in the past I’ve always felt invisible walking through the streets. Then again, I rarely feel like I fit in anywhere.
I do not feel invisible tonight. At Layla’s insistence, I’m wearing her favorite clubbing top, a halter neck with electric blue sequins and matching eyeshadow, while she is wearing a flimsy, shimmering red number that is more bikini and less crop top, glittering green eyeshadow so thick it looks like war paint, and two full arms of silver bangles. Together, we look like poison dart frogs, and nobody dares to approach us.
The bar is packed and the show has already started by the time we arrive. I search the crowd for Amira, but all I see are faces of strangers lit up with joy I want to share.
Layla’s bangles jingle next to my ear as she squeezes my shoulder and pushes her phone into my hands. She’s found Amira’s Instagram and the bright purple story circle is lit up. I press down to look just as Lady Kohinoor takes the stage, dancing to the jaunty beats of Sheila ki Jawani in a dazzling sari that appears to be made almost entirely out of Swarovski crystals.
Sunidhi Chauhan’s playful voice mocks me through the booming speakers while I watch Amira on Layla’s phone, lounging on a bright green noodle in the middle of a massive pool. She throws a cheeky wink at whoever is behind the camera before pushing off and disappearing into the water. There are palm trees in the background; wherever she is, it isn’t Chicago.
She lied to me. I was afraid she would.
No, I knew she would.
But seeing the deception playing out right in front of my eyes is too much to bear. My vision narrows; my breathing turns ragged. I can’t think straight—
Layla grabs both of my shoulders and forces me to make eye contact. “Hey. Are you okay?”
No one has asked me that in a long time.
Before I get a chance to answer, the crowd goes wild. Anita Man has joined Lady Kohinoor on stage for the final part of Sheila ki Jawani, sauntering onto the stage for an explosive duet. In his iridescent sherwani, bright rainbow shawl, and kohl cut into a cat-eye sharper than a talwar, he resembles an emperor far more than a mere king as he follows her around the stage.
With her heels, Lady Kohinoor towers over her spouse by a foot, but Anita Man spins her around and dips her as though she’s made of nothing but clouds and glitter.
When they bow after the performance and the lights come back on, Anita Man catches me staring at him and winks. I melt into the floor.
I’m not sure what to do after the performers leave the stage. Now that the show is over, it seems like the right move to go home—I don’t know anyone else here, and I don’t feel comfortable dancing among a bunch of strangers, even if I’m with a friend.
I start to leave, but Layla immediately grabs my arm. “Where are you going? They’re about to open the dance floor. I heard the performers are going to come out, too. Don’t you want to meet your idol?”
I feel like I’m burning up, like the stage lights have all been turned on me. I hide my cheeks in my hands, trying both to cool down and to hide my embarrassment.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
Layla cackles. “I saw the way you were staring at Anita Man. You should talk to him.”
“What would I even say?”
“It’s a nightclub. I don’t think the words matter.”
Layla and I are dancing now, in the middle of the crowd. Or rather, Layla is dancing and I am trying to copy her movements. To my surprise, nobody even notices my terrible moves. My inability to dance has always been something I’ve felt self-conscious about, but here, in a sea of rhythm and motion, I am just one body among many, and my lack of coordination barely makes a ripple.
With each song, I can feel myself slowly start to loosen, but I still feel tense as I look around to see if Anita Man has joined the crowd. The idea of talking to him feels surreal, but the desire has fully taken hold of me. I can’t shake it.
I hear cheers at the edge of the room and turn to see Anita Man walking through the crowd toward the center of the dance floor. As the crowd parts to let him through, it’s like watching a god walk among mortals. I am content to watch from the sidelines, but then Layla, who has snuck behind me, pushes me forward and I bump into Anita Man’s arms just as he passes by me.
“I’m so sorry!”
His eyes flash first with annoyance, and then with recognition. Up close, I realize we are about the same height, but his presence makes him seem larger than life.
“She loves your work!” I hear Layla scream from the sidelines.
“Is that right?” He leans forward and gently cups my lower back with one hand to pull me closer, and I realize with surprise how small and slender his fingers are.
“I had no idea I had such devoted fans. My Venmo code is by the registration table, if you care to leave a tip,” he murmurs into my ear, before moving away with a wink.
I’m frozen in place as he saunters away, unable to move. Where his fingertips have touched me, my skin tingles.
Layla immediately bounds up to me. “What did he say?”
I wonder for a moment if I should make our exchange sound more exciting than it was, but I decide to be honest.
“He told me how to leave him a tip if I want to.”
“Is that it? Did you at least flirt back?”
“How would I even do that?”
Layla shakes her head. “We really need to teach you how to flirt.”
“We?”
“Yes. Coco and me. Even he’s better at flirting with other girl dogs than you are,” she says, sticking out her tongue.
Together, we watch as another girl taps Anita Man on the shoulder and asks him if he wants to dance, and he responds by holding out his arm and pulling her into the center. As their bodies move closer and closer, Layla sighs. Her voice is filled with the exact disappointment I feel.
“See?” she says. “That could have been you.”
The line for the women’s bathroom is so long that by the time I get inside, I have to run to the stall.
When I come out, the bathroom has emptied out, but Anita Man is standing by the sink, fixing his eyeliner.
“I swear I’m not following you,” I blurt out.
“You’re not making a very convincing case,” he replies.
I’m short circuiting a bit, seeing him in the women’s room with me. Of course he isn’t really a man—but part of me believed he was. Wanted it to be true. Why do I feel disappointed?
“Were you waiting here for me so you could get me alone?” he asks, with a playful grin.
“I mean . . . no. . . .”
“Relax, I’m just messing with you,” he says, turning to leave.
“Wait! Can I ask you something?”
“Depends on what it is. But go ahead.”
“What’s your name?”
“Excuse me?”
A few months from now, I will look back on this conversation and cringe, realizing with the clarity of hindsight that I put Anita Man in an impossible position by trapping him in the bathroom and unknowingly placing him on a pedestal with the futile hope that he would have all the answers I needed.
For now, I try to find the words to explain as he considers me, with an expression that is equally irritated and curious.
“I mean—when you’re still dressed in drag—do you use your stage name when you’re not performing? Or something else?”
It’s a clumsy way to ask what I really want to know, which is whether he understands how I feel, wrapped in this whirlwind of gender confusion, how he navigates the frustration of being placed into a box by other people and the joy of cutting his way out, how he found his way onto the path he is on now—whether something like that is even possible for someone like me, if I’m trapped here forever, if I will ever understand who I am.
I try to maintain eye contact without blushing harder. The burn at the tips of my ears tells me I’m failing.
“You seem nervous,” he replies. “Are you sure you want to know?”
I wonder, slightly fearful, if I’ve truly upset him. “I’m so sorry—”
“You can call me Aadi.”
“Oh, you don’t want me to call you Anita Man or—”
“No,” he says, interrupting me. “I know the name I have on my social media bios is different. But Aadi is my real name.”
“I won’t tell a soul,” I promise with a salute.
Aadi laughs. “No need to be so formal about it. It’s not like I hide it from anyone. It’s just less complicated this way.”
I want to ask him what he means; it seems the opposite of uncomplicated. But I can sense that I am nearing the limit of what he is willing to divulge, and I don’t want to annoy him further.
“Thank you for sharing that with me,” I reply, as I start to edge towards the door.
“Hold on a minute,” he says, grabbing my wrist. “I deserve to ask you a couple questions too, don’t you think? It’s only fair.”
“Um. . . .”
“You know who I am, but I don’t know anything about you. What’s your name?”
It’s a simple enough question. One that I should be able to answer without hesitation. And yet —I search in vain.
“I don’t think I know the answer anymore. Is that weird?”
I didn’t mean to say that out loud. But I have. Aadi releases my wrist and steps back with a gentle but tired sigh.
“It’s only weird if you let yourself believe it is.”
“What do you mean?”
Aadi shakes his head and smiles. I stare with awe as his entire demeanor shifts back to the playful facade from before. In the same tone of voice I now recognize as belonging to his stage persona, he replies, “I’m so sorry, but Twenty Questions is over for the night! See you on the dance floor, stranger.”
I scan the crowd to find Layla.
I spot her almost immediately, flashing and sparkling like an iridescent neon sign in the rain. I watch, fascinated, as she dances alone. Like me, Layla doesn’t know anyone else here, but unlike me, she is fearless. She whirls around to her own rhythm, completely immersed in the music until she spots me.
Layla waves for me to join her, so I plunge into the crowd. Nobody parts to make way for me, so I have to push my way through and earn some dirty looks. By the time I finally reach her, I’m drenched in sweat, but so is she. The song playing is a line dance I barely know, and Layla grabs my hands to pull me right next to her.
The crowd is so dense that I’m forced to move along with everyone else if I want to avoid whirling elbows in my face. As I do my best to follow their moves, Aadi’s words echo in my head. In the anonymity of this crowd, once I’m sure everyone is looking in the opposite direction, I straighten my posture and flick my hands upward in an exaggerated motion, allowing myself to embody the spirit of a man who doesn’t curl up and hide in a shadowy corner but who instead chooses to move confidently across the dance floor. To take up as much space as he needs.
The next bus home won’t arrive for twenty minutes. Layla sits next to me and taps her fingers together impatiently as she complains about how hungry she is. Her eyeshadow has smeared, giving her the overall effect of a glittering racoon.
At this level of exhaustion, my defenses are down, and I feel a sudden rush of gratitude toward Layla for being with me tonight. I blurt out words I never meant to say out loud.
“Did I tell you Amira told me I reminded her of a boy?”
A warm giddiness blooms through my whole body as I remember how I felt standing next to Amira at the other bus stop, basking in the idea of boyishness. In the fuzzy liminal space of our post-club delirium, I want to share this happiness with Layla, thinking it might not be so bad to let her see more of who I really am. Or at least, who I want to be.
“What the fuck? That’s so mean!”
My warm glow recedes. But Layla looks curious, not disgusted, so I continue.
“No . . . what I mean is . . . I . . . I think I liked it. When she said that.”
“Oh! Okay. Interesting. Is that why you liked Anita Man so much? Because you want to be like him?
“Maybe, yeah,” I reply.
Layla’s words make me feel vulnerable, like the most tender corners of my heart have suddenly been exposed to the elements. There’s truth in them, but I don’t yet have the words to explain that emulating Aadi is only one part of the whole equation. There’s so much more.
The bus finally pulls up. In the pitch black of the night, the bright lights are blinding, but I’m ready to go home.
***
Artwork by Papermax Studio
